The Man In The Woods
by CastingAnthems
Summary: One-Shot this story is a bit on the special side. You have to have an open mind to read it. Sherlock is a child (eight years old) and his family is a dystopia basically. He's alone. But the man in the woods keeps him company. Is the man in Sherlock's head real or pretend? You decide. This story is some Horror/Suspense/Crime/Supernatural/Friendship/Mystery a bunch of things.


**A/N: Hey! It's Colvin, again. Back with another most likely one-shot. It's completely different from what i normally do and isn't not connected to anything else i've written. I got the idea for the tone after fishing for four hours in the woods.**

 **Sherlock is around eight and John, well his whole character is all based on perceptive. Read and find out! Enjoy!**

 **The Man In The Woods**

 **By: Colvin**

Commonly, anyone could call their family dysfunctional. Families aren't normally perfect anyway. There's always the trouble making sibling or the parent who is too strict or too loose. But in the end, at the end of the day you're still one big happy family. You could sit down to dinner and discuss the events of the day, academic achievements, plans for the family and just bond. Everyone can get along.

But not my family, we didn't function like that. There was no possible way we could. It was rare to engage in mediocre conversation rather throat wrenching, scream curdling brawls over nothing. We acted like a starving pack of wolves. Snapping, barking and as dramatic as it was, we even growled at each other. It was " _fend for yoursel_ f", " _survival of the fittest_.", it was shameful.

My mother, bless her heart, was a bit narcotic addicted. She abused her prescribed medications. A bottle of Xanax containing a hundred and twenty count pills would only last her three weeks. It's suppose to last over a month. The Methadone that she uses for her bad back is an even shorter amount of time. Every now and then i saw that she would shoot up with what looked to be heroine. I don't know. Most of the time around nine pm you could find her doped up, passed out in her recliner or bed. To find your mother that way really puts a dent in your childhood. It messes with you. She never cooked, so knowing where the next meal would come from was uncertain. A fight. She didn't clean, the house always smelt weird and was dirty. Mother tragically didn't keep up with her appearance. Only being in her early thirties she could be a grandma. A weak, sick looking grandmother. Her curly brown hair was stringy and had spots of gray. Her skin was always so flushed, cold to the touch. She didn't eat much so I doubt she weighed anymore than a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Hardly did I ever see her smile because there _wasn't_ drugs flowing in her system. It was difficult to get her grin at me no matter what i did. She acted like me nor my brother existed. Especially me since I wanted the attention. I don't think she understood what it took to actually be a mother. I could count on my fingers, using one hand to the amount of " _hugs and kisses_ " I'd ever gotten from her. I can't remember a time she really seemed to worry if I was sick, sad or hurt. All she cared about was drugs.

Then, there was my father. He was a hard working man. It wasn't like he had much of a choice either, two kids and an addict for a wife, work was his time away from the nightmare he lived in and a way to provide for his alcoholism and mother's drug problem. He always came home late from work. Drug as usual. He and mum would fight over the bills and money. Never about my brother and I, they didn't care. Anyhow, he was a tall man with broad shoulders. His excessive drinking made his stomach swell, Pop out. A thinning hairline that was getting worse with the stress of his situation, his health. Father always had a stern, smug look on his face. He had a short temper but never did I see him lay a finger on anyone. However, our house carried his mark. Unpatched holes in the wall, broken beer bottles in the corners of a room and tossed objects he could get his hands on. Even when he was plastered he kept his violence to non living items. Father was also the family "cook" you could say. Burnt Mac & Cheese, uncooked chicken and spoiled canned soups. Just whatever he could find to shut us up. At least he tried to put forth effort at keeping us alive.

Finally, there was my thick headed brother. Mycroft. He was seven years older than me so our ability to connect failed. Every time I grew into something, he grew out. We nearly never got new clothes so I wore whatever my brother gave me. His weight made the clothes hang on me like rags. There was no way Mycroft could gain that weight by just eating what we had at home, no. My brother liked to steal whenever he got the chance. Candy, drinks, chocolate, anything he could put into his pocket. On a good day, he'd share. That was closest to brotherly love as it got. Most of the time Mycroft stayed in his room blasting music doing whatever fifteen year olds did. I was too young to understand apparently. He locked his door so I couldn't get in. I wasn't the pesky little brother or anything I just hated to be alone. I _really_ hated being alone. I couldn't stand it, yet i always was.

Our house was small. One story, three bedrooms, one bath. The kitchen size was the only half of a bedroom and the living room looked more like a closet. There was barely enough space for a couch let alone a telly. The wallpaper peeled off the walls, trash laid around and some of the lights barely turned on. Every step you took the house would shake and creak from under you. You could easily hear someone's every move. It smelt like cigarettes, mold and some other unnameable musty odors. The air made you feel sweaty. Which didn't make anything better since the hot water tank only worked for five minutes then it kicked out. This was how I lived. In filth and grime.

As I said earlier, my brother and I are seven year apart. He was currently fifteen and I was about eight. Thankfully, compared to my brother, my intelligence made up for my lack of size and actual maturity. Knowing, be aware of things takes away your innocence so half the time, for my own sake I acted I like I knew nothing. I was stupid.

Of course where am I suppose to obtain this knowledge? Certainly not at home. So that's where school came into play. Well, when I went to school. Some days my brother and I would miss the bus or the water would get shut off so there would be no way to shower and we'd have to stay home. But the days we did go was vacation. Not the environment though. Screaming children and moody teachers. The system lacked construction and obeisance. I was eight years old in a room full of nine and ten year olds, (Gifted, I skipped the third grade.) and I given their year or so on me i stilled acted older. Mentally. I did what I was told and remained quiet. I was the perfect student because I enjoyed school.

You'd think recess would be every child's favorite part at school. That, or lunch. Food and freedom makes any kid happy. I couldn't blame them. I liked food, I didn't get much of it. And I liked freedom, my home was a prison. But I liked the curriculum more than anything. Basic science, History, English and Math. I, a fourth grader and I loved science. The seven planets, excluding Pluto, Newton's Laws, the solar system and a little Anatomy, my personal favorite. It was my favorite class.

Remember when I said my brother liked to steal food? Well sometimes he'd steal clothes too. Dress shirts, slacks and if the store was real lackadaisical on security some shoes. Very soon I picked up on his habits, nit-picking here and there. But the one thing I liked to take the most, i felt no guilt when i did was books from the school library. I wasn't choosy on the genre or hardness level. I'd figure it out. I just like taking it, knowing it's not mine and adding it to my collection at home. I'd say i had about over hundred books hidden under my bed. If I didn't like the book, or knew it would be missed I returned it when I was finished. Some of teachers caught on but not once was i punished.

Mysteries and fantasies were my favorite to read. From the time I got home from school to about bedtime my nose was buried in a book.

However, I was still a child so my curiosity and adventure got the best of me. I was allowed at outside anytime I wanted. As long as it wasn't raining. So when I would go outside I liked to sit in my backyard and play in the dirt. Digging holes, to find worms, pretending to find treasure or landscaping. My imagination was the limit. Other times I went into the thick lining of woods that resided behind my tattered house. I knew it wasn't a good idea to go very deep for fear I'd get lost and no one would come looking so I stayed about thirty-five feet away and no more. Within that distant I found some scrapped metal, wood planks, and a couple of empty crates. With that supplies I sorta built my own castle, club house, _man-cave_. Call it as you will. I'd sit in it for hour upon hours and play or read. Shear child enjoyment. My little escape from reality.

I hated to be alone.

Given my circumstances you'd think that there would be no way to possible avoid _not_ being alone. Addict mother, alcoholic father and antisocial brother. I was on my own, _alone_. Truthfully, not really. Yes, I was by myself when I was inside my home, among my family. No one to talk to but myself.

Outside though, I was never alone. He was always there.

He came to play with me when i went outside. At first when I started playing outside he wasn't there. Every now and then I'd see him linger around the woods. Avoiding eye contact with me, unresponsive and skittish. He was a mystery. One day, I got enough curiosity to follow him, but not even five minutes in I lost sight of him. He kept his distant for about a month or so.

Then one day, just like normal, I came outside to find him sitting in my club house. Patiently waiting. I wanted to scream, run and leave. It scared me. He scared me even though there was nothing scary about him other than he was bigger than me. Adult size. He wasn't very tall, much shorter than my father. His hair was a darker shade of blonde or a real lighter shade of brown. Maybe there was a hint of gray sprinkled in it, I couldn't tell. It laid well groomed to his head, swayed to the right, never the left. His eyes were a pale shade of blue that clouded around his pupils. They had dark circles under them from possible lack of sleep. They made me sleepy to look at. When he would smile I could see his straight white teeth. Not sure if he had a compulsive behavior to lick his lips, he frequently did, or he just had real bad chapped lips. Winter was coming anyway. He looked to have cold, pale skin but I was afraid to touch him. Often, well almost every day he wore a black button up coat that had padded elbow pads, dark jeans and brown boots. The only thing that seemed to change about him was his shirts. Some days it was a t-shirt, others a sweater or fancy button up that for him just right. For some reason when I got close to him, he smelt like coffee beans and lavender. A smell I often smelled at school from teachers and the bathrooms. He was invariably kind, patient and attentive to listen to me when I spoke. At first, when he came around we didn't speak just sit there staring at each other or I'd read and he sit there, still, calm and silent. When I had to go inside he remained in the clubhouse until I was inside. If I came back unknowingly he would be gone and I wouldn't see him until the next time I was able to go outside.

The first day I found him in my fort I should have ran, screamed and mentioned to someone that there was a man in my play area. I should have known better to talk to strangers even though I wasn't taught to not. Eight years old, very intelligent I knew better. Instead that day I sat down with the man. I invited him in to stay awhile.

In the back of my empty, hungry, curious mind I questioned if this man I saw and spent my sunny days with was real or not. Imaginary friends around my age wasn't completely uncommon and given my environment inventing someone like him was likely. But what was different about this _"imaginary friend"_ then normal ones was the fact I only saw him outside, in the woods. He was limited to the trees and plants. Never did I see him out in public or with someone else. One time I got the courage to ask my father if he knew him and if he lived near by, he had no idea what I was talking about. No one did. So eventually I simply accepted the idea this man was just in my head and I was okay with that. He made me happy.

But one day, a day that changed my life forever I learned just how overactive my imagination could get. And just like reality, pretend had its boundaries. I would never be the same.

It was a weekend so I had all day to play outside since the sky was mostly clear. It was breaking into the end of fall so I dress accordingly to the temperature outside. Jeans, a t-shirt and a light jacket that was too big for me. It was around noon when I broke out of the house with a half drank bottle of water and a mostly full box of biscuits I stole from my brothers room. As routine I went into the woods and met him at my clubhouse. Whenever I had food I always offered him some, politely he refused, he always did. I took my seat on a rusted bucket I found a couple days ago while he sat on the ground. Today he stared at me, a different kind of stare than usual. He carried deep a puzzled expression. It took him many minutes to utter his thought; "You think I'm not real." He said in a low tone.

I looked up at him from my food, finished chewing and replied.

"If you were real you wouldn't know I think you're made up."

"Last night you brought Mycroft down here so he could meet me."

"Yeah, and you weren't here." Replying instantly I took a sip of my water, "How do you know I brought him down here?"

"I was watching."

"Why didn't you come out? He doesn't believe me. No one does..."

He gave me a melancholy look, "it doesn't matter what anyone else believes, just as long as you know I'm real."

"But I don't."

Neither of us said a word. Silence. I went back to eating and he sustained to stare at me dejectedly. Maybe i hurt his feelings. I didn't mean too.

"Sherlock," I glanced up at him. He licked his lips and continued, "I'm real."

I laid down the box of biscuits and whipped my fingers on my jeans.

"Prove it."

Suddenly he got up, grabbing my hand in the process and pulled me from the fort to the lining of woods. He was first to step out of the woods, pulling be closely behind him. Out in the open we stood. Looking at each other searching for the right words to say. I'd never seen him come out of the woods. Yet, here we were. Not to far from my house, standing. Maybe he is real and i'm being a bad friend.

"You think I'm bound to the woods." He said.

"How do you know that?"

"A couple weeks ago you asked me why I didn't leave the woods."

"And? Why don't you?"

"I do. Just farther down."

I nodded and scanned the area around us. It was so quite, tranquil and peaceful. There wasn't even the sound of birds chirping. Winter was weeks Frost nipping at our noses.

He got down to my level, on his knees as he put both his chilled hands on my shoulders. He locked his gray blue eyes on mine and spoke softly. Meaning every word he said.

"Sherlock. I'm real, okay?"

I had no reply just a stare at him back. Stepping outside the woods was hardly anything to prove existence. Someone else needed to see him. I wasn't a fool.

"Someone else has to see you." I said in almost whisper.

He nodded and took my hand again. We began to walk towards my house. I could feel my heart start to race with nervous tension. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

"Wait. If you meet my family they'll want me to stay away from you."

He peered down at me and smiled, showing no teeth.

"But you'll know I'm real."

I stopped walking, pulling my hand away from his. Looking down at the ground breathing intently. No, I didn't want him to meet my family. There is nothing special about them.

"No. I don't to lose you. If they meet you I'll lose you. I don't care if you're real or not, i don't want you to go away. I don't want to be alone John."

"Sherlock I'm not going anywhere."

"Then... Um, let's go back to the clubhouse and play pirates or something."

I started to head back to the woods. But he didn't follow me. He stood there in the middle of my backyard watching me. Not even a bit satisfied with my protest.

"Sherlock. If I gave you an opportunity to stay with me forever would you take it?"

Slowly, I turned around to him. Squinting my eyes at him because the sun finally appeared from the thin layer of clouds. Indeed his hair did have a grimmer of gray and his skin _was_ pale.

"What do you mean?"

"I gave you the chance to be with me forever, play all the games you want and read anything thing you'd like. But..." He pulsed, "you'd have to leave your family and you could never come back. Would you take that opportunity?"

"Yes, but they'd come looking for me. And so would the police. We'd get in trouble." I implied.

"No they wouldn't. Sherlock, they don't care about you. They wouldn't call the police or come looking for you. You know they look at you like a burden. They don't want to take care of you. But... I do. We could live together happy and free."

On a rational level he was wrong. My parents may not care to look for me but my brother would. And when I didn't show up for school, they'd call the police. There was no way we wouldn't get in trouble.

"John, I can't." My pitch broke.

"I care about you. I want to take care of you Sherlock. I know you hate this place. You aren't happy."

There, he was right. It was true, I hated it here. I hated having to live like this. I hated my parents and the lifestyle I had to live. Eight years old and i didn't matter to anyone but him.

"How…?" My voice faded.

He smiled and licked his lips, "Go back into the woods to the clubhouse. Do not come out 'til I come back. Understand? I'll be there shortly. Right behind you."

"Where are you going?" Panic shot up from my stomach mixing with my words.

"I'm going to get some of your stuff. Your favorite reads and that puzzle book you like." He spoke calmly.

"No. No, they'll see you John."

"Sherlock," He put a hand on my head and ruffled my curly hair some. "Trust me."

"But..."

"I'll be back."

Before I could say another word he began walking again to my house. Occasionally looking back at me to make sure I was heading back to the woods. I looked back as well with a knot so big in my stomach i could puke and my brain hurt. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton. I was almost out of water.

 _What if he gets caught? What if he never comes back? What if my father tries to hurt him?_ So many thoughts ran through my head like cars on a race track. I couldn't keep up with them. I felt light headed and sick to my stomach.

I didn't want to lose him. That's all I really could think about. Not losing him. He was the only person I had, my friend. If I lost him... I'd be all alone again. By myself. Unhappy.

I waited for what felt like forever. Pacing around the fort, munching on biscuits and tried to calm myself. I was sweating so I removed my jacket carelessly. The constant, painful, buzzing idea of him not coming back haunted me. I prayed I didn't offend him by not believing he was real, questioning him. I hoped he wasn't going to don't leave.

The sound of sticks breaking make me jump with fear and excitement. My heart was fluttering in my chest. My ear drums pounded loudly, with every noise that way made. Then, just as I went speak he appeared at the entrance of the clubhouse. A big smile on his face.

But something was off.

His face had small drops of red on them and when I moved my eyes down his white jumper was covered in red as well as part of his jeans. In his hands held the spoken items he promised to retrieve. My two favorite books and my puzzle book. His coffee and lavender scent changed to the sweaty, musty rotting smell of my house. I despised that smell so much. I wouldn't miss it.

"...W-why are you covered in red?" I hesitated to ask.

He didn't answer me. Instead he made his way in the fort and sat down in his usual spot on the ground. I stood in front of him as he stared up at me, "Now we can always be together." He flashed a grin at me.

Something didn't sit right with me. There was this hole inside my chest. A bad feeling at the tip of my finger tips. I wanted to cry. Something wasn't right. This wasn't right. _Why is he covered in red? Why haven't my parents came outside calling for me? What did he do?_

I took another hard look at the red that covered him. It a deep red, almost black in some parts. You could almost make out the shape of a hand towards the end. Rarely did i have see that shade of red until i got hurt.

It was blood.

It had to of been blood. There was blood all over his sweater. Oh no.

"...Is, is that bl-blood?" I fumbled around with my words almost in disbelief I was even saying them.

He held out his hand for me to take. There was small traces of blood stained on his finger tips.

"Come here." He said in the very low tone.

Without question for some reason I took his hand. Swiftly, he pulled me down to him. My vision was spinning from the movement and the pain of my brain trying to understand everything but I found myself in his lap. My back braced against his chest. I could feel his ice hands lock around my waist and him breathe down my neck. His rough face brushed against mine when he moved his head. This was the closest I'd ever been to him. It felt so real. Nothing about this could be made up. His touch was factual.

"When do we leave?" I asked as I picked up my puzzle book.

"Later."

I buried myself into my puzzle book to help relinquish some of the uneasiness I felt inside. I knew the blood on his sweater wasn't his and he'd only gone one place and that was too my house. To come back covered in blood only meant one thing. My addict mother, my alcoholic father and my distant brother were dead. The only way we could get away without anyone ever coming to look for me was if my family was dead. Now even I knew that action wouldn't last forever. Someone was going to find them but when they do, however long that maybe John and I will be long gone.

It was getting late into the evening and I already completed three puzzles and ate most of the of my biscuits. Even with him pressed against me his body temperature was low and the outside air was even cooler. Soon, I began to get chilled and shake. He could clearly tell I was cold so he removed his jumper and placed it on me. The feeling of dry, flaky starchy fabric slid onto my mink body was uncomfortable but surprisingly warm. Instantly I was breathing the aroma of rotting iron. I wore the blood on my family.

He barely spoke a word, just asked if I was okay and praised me for finishing a puzzle.

I don't know why we haven't left yet. Maybe he knew I wasn't ready to go. Sure, I was over the moon excited to start my new life with him. Someone would actually cared about me. But I wasn't given the polite courtesy to tell them farewell so the only thing I could do was mentally say goodbye. It's all I had.

"You mean the world to me Sherlock." I heard him say as I could feel myself drifting off into what I assumed was sleep. In his arms, held ever so tightly I fell asleep in his arms. I wasn't going to be alone anymore or ever again. I had my best friend John.

I don't know how long I was asleep. It didn't feel like for very long. But when I opened my eyes I was no longer in his arms. I couldn't feel his weak warmth on me. Instead my face was planted on the cold ground along with my body. I was coiled in a ball.

It took me a minute to focus on my surroundings and realize where I was. I was still outside, in my fort in the woods. It was almost completely dark and I gave my eyes a couple minutes to adjust. Looking around I noticed my puzzles book and books were scattered beside me. One thing was missing, one huge thing missing. Frantic, I say up shooting a glance left to right, side to side, up and down. Each direction I looked was black, total blackness. Cautiously getting out the clubhouse and I saw nothing. Blackness. John wasn't in or out the fort. He disappeared. He was gone. The big thing missing was him.

"John?" I said trying to not be too loud.

I nervously waited for a reply.

Nothing.

"John?"

No reply.

Nothing.

"John!" I finally got the guts to yell out.

Nothing.

Unknowingly my body began to shake. Not because I was cold, I was scared. My legs where trembling with every step I took. I had to find John. Where could he have gone?

"John! Where are you?" I yelled, "John!"

Suddenly, a hard footsteps come from in front of me. Each step was louder and louder and louder. They didn't say anything or make any quick movements.

"John...? Is, is that you?" My voice quivered.

A bright light blinded me. I threw my hand up to shade my eyes and try to decipher where the light was coming from but it hurt too much. They stood their, silently, just holding the blinding light in my face. Right away I heard a long beeping, buzzing sound followed up by a short click. A scanner?

"We... We got a l-live one here. Pos...possible victim." The voice stuttered, shocked by his findings.

I shook my head repeatedly. No! He was a cop. They found my family and now they're looking for John and I. They were going to separate me from him. It was a bad idea after all.

My body running on massive amount adrenaline kicked the _'fight or flight_ " mode on. My legs started to shuffle backward and I kept my eyes locked on the brighter light.

"Kid, kid it's okay. I'm a police man. You are safe now." He spoke in slow tone that didn't give me comfortable.

" _No_." I mumbled to myself.

I kept moving, trying my best not to trip. No, I couldn't nor wouldn't leave without him. They won't take me away from him.

He walked towards me, holding out a hand to me. Approaching with precaution. He was scared of me, I could clearly see it. My fear of him was bigger.

I was out of options.

"John!" I began to scream as loud as I could, "John! The cops! John!"

Nothing.

No reply from my best friend. Nothing. He was gone. He left me, abandoned me. I was alone again.

My family was dead and he disappeared.

Again, I was eight years old, the only survivor out of a triple homicide who was found screaming in the woods for someone who wasn't there. The assumed murder weapon was found in the clubhouse. A bloody kitchen knife that had my prints all over it. I don't remember grabbing or touching a knife that day. My mother was found dead in her bed, stabbed five times in the abdomen. Bleeding to death in minutes. My father, stabbed twelve times in the chest. The only thing that killed him was the severed jugular vein in his neck. My brother, my sweet brother. He was stabbed over twenty times in the back. He survived for over an hour before choking on his own blood. They suffered, all of them suffered painfully Then there was me. I didn't have a scratch on me. I was found bodily unharmed but mentally unstable. The lone survivor.

I was eight years old. Eight. When they looked for possible suspects, going as far as three towns over to question any and every John within the area. The ones they brought in for identification didn't match the John I knew. The short, kind smile, cloudy blue eyes. They couldn't find him and neither could I. Where did he go?

Since my prints were on the bloody knife and I was the only left alive I soon turned into the suspect. An eight year old murderer. I don't remember going back into my house at all that day, i couldn't have! John was the missing link and I, so young underwent tons mental testing. I don't know how many machine my body went through or the amount of questions people who I didn't know their first name asked. But pretty soon I was placed on trial and prosecuted. They ruled I wasn't mentally well enough to know my consequences of my actions when I, Sherlock Holmes murderer my family. They confirmed John did in fact not exist. It was all in my head. Schizophrenic. My imaginary friends motive of murder was my own. I stabbed my family to death with a knife because I was crazy, unhappy, and schizo.

I was sent to an child asylum far away from my old home for further observations and treatment options. I knew, being so young, I was going to be here for a long, long, time. I killed my family and lost my sanity. I was _evil._ Some called me that, they actually did. I was wicked and cured by the devil himself.

My first night in the sanitarian the room was cold and the thin layer of sheets did little to keep me warm. It made me miss my best friend. But this was my new home. Pristine clean walls and floors, smoke free scented and for once itchy, yet correct fitting clothing. I was fed three times a day and the food wasn't half bad. Better than what I had before. I was for once, possibility, happy. I dramatically improved my environment and my well being and all it took was murdering my family. John was right about one thing, i am happier now.

But one night when i couldn't sleep because the room couldn't get an colder and I couldn't shake any harder a sudden warmth flooded over me. I felt the presence of two arms pulls me close into a semi heated embrace. Protected holding. The smell of coffee bean and lavender danced into my nose. The hot sensation of steaming breath down my neck. I knew these feelings all too much.

 _John_.

"I told you we'd be together forever." He whispered in my ear.

Clear down to my bones I felt the chill. Freezing my blood where it lay. Numbing every muscle in my body. A ball of forgotten tears fell down my cheeks. I shuttered in his arms. When i looked down i saw his arms, they were there, i could feel the pressure. He was back.

"You... aren't re-real." I said as I clenched my teeth together.

He wasn't real. God, i spent so much time understanding that he wasn't real.

He clutched me tighter, squeezing me for reassurance. In taking the calm, measure of air. I could feel him smile just before he spoke.

"Yes I am." He whispered to me again.

I closed my eyes, shutting down my tears and vision, but I continued to cry. Sob like the helpless child I was.

I was going to spend my whole life in here so I wanted to believe he wasn't real and i could recover. Realize that my action were my own fault. I killed my family.

But one detail about the police finding me seemed to pop into my mind, stand out from anything else happening. Completely unavoidable. I didn't even know how i could forget such a thing.

I was found in the woods, screaming for someone who wasn't there while wearing a white, starchy sweater that was two times my size covered in blood.

-End.

 _What do you think happened? Is John real or is Sherlock actually crazy? How and why? Please, please, please review and favorite! Let me know what you think and_ _if_ _convinced i continue this to another chapter or two. But that will be based off high demand. I'll give you a hint on what could possibly happen next. Well, it will probably be many, many, many years later Sherlock is granted a closely advised parole. Since he has no choice but to stick close to the police he kinda turns into the consulting detective you know him as. While struggling with his past he really is The Freak to everyone else but when he meets a man by the name John Watson his childhood starts to resurface along with the painful memories. Could this John Watson man is the John from his childhood? If he was real all these years, why hasn't he aged and why did he leave? An even bigger problem? Sherlock isn't the only one who can see him. Thank you for reading._

 _Don't forget to check out some other of works of mine; Recreating Love (A Tale of What Sherlock Wanted), The Only Man I'd Ever Love, Psychoanalyze my Deductions and His Very Last Vow._


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